


only gonna eat you (this town is)

by themikeymonster



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha!Matt, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Matt is a Disaster, Non-Con Elements between Foggy and OC, Omega!foggy, Stahl and Nelson - Advocates At Law
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themikeymonster/pseuds/themikeymonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical day for Foggy Nelson usually involves bickering with his partner, Marci Stahl, and helping clients with minor legal complications. He is not an omega from one of those Harlequin Romance novels, even if it might look like it at the moment, what with being abducted by human traffickers right before his heat, and then getting rescued by a lunatic in black pajamas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title thanks to To Kill A King - [Bloody Shirt (Bastille Remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P00kfamddrI)
> 
>  **Warnings** : Human Trafficking, dodgy scene between Foggy and an OC involving simulated oral sex but no actual oral sex, violent thoughts, breaking and entering, having unprotected heat-sex with a stranger, lots of biting/bruises, ABO-typical breeding/Mpreg references, use of the Morning After pill, frank discussion of mpreg and family planning between doctor and patient, a shitload of OCs, and apparently eventual slow-burn in a/b/o world???
> 
> Additionally, this is kind of non-standard A/B/O. Terms such as alpha-femme and omega-homme are used, which indicates primary and secondary sexual characteristics. 'Man' is kind of an antiquated term that none-the-less is used when referring to vigilante!Matt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this was provoked by a request on the kinkmeme, we're getting all the a/o heat-sex outta the way. Future chapters will revolve around plot and (probably) no sex as porn is not rly my thing. Please enjoy!

* * *

 

 

There is no two ways about it: this city has problems. Foggy knows that. It is part of the reason he came back to it to get his fancy license and his dreams of doing some good. His head isn't in the sand or anything, not like some people's are - Foggy is an omega living on his own. He can't afford to live with his head in the sand.

 

He kind of does anyway, because it rarely touches him as a person. Foggy mostly deals with the aftermath, once the crime has happened and the situation is under control. The police have already been called, they've resolved it, and now someone is going to face a jury of their peers and they need someone to work the system. That's when the phones at Stahl and Nelson ring, thank God for Brett Mahoney. One game of rock-paper-scissors later, either he or Marci will trot down to the station and take a look.

 

Sometimes they take countersuits, but those are more Marci's specialty. She likes the twisty and contrary ways she has to abuse loopholes sometimes to get her client's way. Foggy prefers the neater, cleaner work of defense, especially when his client is innocent.

 

All the same, they have seen some ugly stuff. It isn't like Foggy is in denial about his city's brutal, dark underbelly. He can still get caught off-guard though.

 

Thinking back on it, there hadn't been any real sign that his day was going to go to shit. Foggy isn't usually the kind that counts his blessings, but things had been going well. Just that morning, he'd arrived at the coffee shop in time for a fresh set of pastries and a new pot of their specialty coffee. It had left him with a pretty optimistic feeling about his day, and nothing had happened for the rest of it to prove otherwise.

 

Well, nothing had happened until late that night, anyway. Maybe he should have taken his good day as a sign that it was time for the universe to balance the scales. When too many things go Foggy's way, that's usually a sign that they're about to swing back to shittiness.

 

It started with a craving for ice cream. Foggy had tried to ignore it, but cravings could be difficult to resist, so he'd taken a hormone reading. It suggested that it would be hours yet before his heat set in, which was plenty of time in which to take a quick trip to the store. Foggy pretended indecision for a bit longer, then dabbed on some beta cologne so even the most sensitive alpha nose would notice nothing amiss, and he'd gone on his way. It was almost perfectly safe.

 

Almost. All those preparations cut down on outside interference. They don't account for Foggy happening across an abduction on his way back to his apartment. That should have been the moment at which Foggy called the police to report a crime in progress. Instead, what Foggy does is throw his half-eaten quart of ice cream at them.

 

Seriously, fuck Foggy's hormones. In case anyone is wondering, melted ice cream makes for a really shitty weapon. 0/10, would not recommend.

 

So things proceed in a predictable manner from that point. Specifically, Foggy wakes up in a crowded room with no windows and no airflow.

 

His mouth tastes stale and a little metallic. There are a few people pressed close to him, and it isn't helping his splitting headache. The air is thick with a noxious combination of unwashed bodies and fear and stress. Foggy groans.

 

"Shh," someone urges him, smoothing a hand over his forehead. The hand is small and cool and soothing against his burning skin. "Stay down," the young omega tells him fretfully.

 

Foggy blinks the rest of the way awake, clutching his stomach and swallowing thickly. The room is dim, barely lit by the bare bulb hanging far above them in the ceiling. He's burning up in his comfortable sweats, and the room is stale with breath. Against his caretaker's wishes, he stirs, then nearly immediately stills.

 

"Oh, crap," he says. He's been unconscious for hours, apparently. His heat is well upon him, sticky and slick. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

The betas and the few omegas have crowded him toward the back of the room, as far from the door as possible. They're all so young, Foggy thinks, astounded. Most of them are beta-femmes, but the ones closest to Foggy are the omegas, mostly femme but a few like himself and the omega who is trying to steady him with small, delicate dark hands. Everyone has such wide, scared eyes and lost expressions.

 

His body itches. His skin is burning and the pilled inside of his sweats is going to sand it away like so much varnish from wood. Foggy wipes his mouth and something crusts at the corner, and he looks at his hand and it's red blood. He vaguely remembers biting one of the betas before they subdued him and knocked him out.

 

"Okay," he says, "alright." He forces himself the rest of the way to his feet, and looks around at the crouching minors. If he hadn't been going into heat, he's pretty sure that the betas would have left him knocked out in the alley way. They should have, anyway, he thinks uncharitably, but they probably expect him to be a begging mess before morning.

 

That's not quite the kind of omega that Foggy is.

 

It's unlikely that there's an alpha on site or in the trafficking crew, or otherwise Foggy would have been confined and bred long before he'd regained consciousness. He ignores the way his teeth ache; Foggy has had a lot of practice ignoring his instincts, he'll ignore these, too.

 

"Alright, so! Who is in charge here," he asks them, glancing around like this is a court-of-law and he has to read his jury and find their points of weakness. He gets a lot of clueless looks and doesn't curse, though he wants to. "Well, fine then. Who has been here longest?"

 

That gets him somewhere. Some of the beta-femmes start refusing him eye-contact, looking around at nothing in particular.

 

"Alright," he says, aiming his attention mostly at the group nearest the door which has the most femmes that won't meet his eyes. "I need to know how long you've been here, and how often they come back to check on you."

 

They aren't forth-coming with details. Some of them have been here as long as a week already, which doesn't seem that long to Foggy but is evidently more than long enough for the betas to have been abused into co-operation. It takes him stupidly long to get any good information out of them, and with each passing hour his heat gets worse.

 

Foggy is forced to take a break from his interrogation to grit his teeth through the spasms in his gut. His scent has taken on a distinctive metallic tang to it, like something freshly wounded and vulnerable.

 

He flinches when hands land on him, but it's just the omega-homme from before, patting him soothingly with one hand even as he tries to fan Foggy with the other. "It'll be okay," he tries to tell Foggy.

 

Foggy smiles thinly at him and doesn't say: _no it won't_. He's an omega that's been captured by traffickers, which is bad enough. He is also already in heat, so his defect will be immediately clear, and they'll know they won't be able to sell him off. It is a toss-up whether he'll be chained in the basement for personal use or killed as not worth the trouble. It is possible that one of the traffickers will know someone who will have a use for him. 

 

He's not sure how much time has passed when there is a sound at the door. Half the room seems to hold their breath and the other half cringes and they all freeze in place as the door rattles. Foggy counts three locks before the final one at the knob is undone, and the door is opened to reveal a beta-homme. Foggy doesn't recognize him, but that doesn't surprise him at all. 

 

"Everyone still alive in here?" the beta asks. Foggy isn't sure he would care if they wouldn't since he doesn't wait for an answer before he starts tossing bottles of water toward the betas, who have to catch it or get hit. "You lucky dogs are getting eight, tonight," he says, "on account of our newcomers. Better sort it out amongst yourself and make it last." Smirking a little unpleasantly, he peers around at them all for a moment before saying, smugly, "And where is our fresh little wet bitch? I can smell you from upstairs." 

 

Foggy's teeth ache. He's not sure if the flush on his skin is heat or humiliation, but he's sharply aware of just how thirsty he is. It's hot in the room, and the slightly fresher air from the open door only makes it that much more obvious. He has sweated out most of his moisture, he thinks - normally by this time, he probably would have drank thirty or thirty-two ounces of water. 

 

"Come on out, bitch," the beta says, holding up the last bottle of water. He shakes it mockingly. "Don't you want a drink?" 

 

He has to. If he doesn't, his condition will get worse and he'll be weaker. 

 

The omega-homme grasps at him, but Foggy pushes his hands away and pats him as reassuringly as he can before he stands. The beta smirks at him. There's nothing particularly sexual in it, but there doesn't have to be, and he slouches against the door, the arm holding the water bottle braced above his head. 

 

Foggy is a mess and he knows it, drenched in sweat and sticky and slick. He's not turned on in the least - it's not a matter of wanting to fuck, it's a matter of needing to, like needing to breathe, like needing to drink. In this state, even this asshole's pathetic beta dick is enticing; it would sooth his itch, just a bit, at least until something more suitable came along. 

 

That's just the primal omega-hindbrain, Foggy reminds himself as he comes to a wary stop three feet away from the beta. He doesn't quite look away from the beta, flickering his eyes up at the bottle of water held out of reach. 

 

The beta smirks at him, and lowers his arm. He twists the cap off, then holds the open bottle, canted, just at the level of his crotch. Foggy looks at it, then looks up at the beta's smirking face. 

 

"Seriously," Foggy asks.

 

The beta tilts the bottle so the water splashes out, more water than Foggy can really spare, wasted on the floor. The beta twists his face in a mockery of regret, of sympathy-more-like-pity. "Your choice," he says with a pout, can't hold it and lets his face split into a toothsome grin. 

 

Foggy's skin itches. He's thirsty and he needs something to stop up his leaking core before everything vital comes out. He needs something to stop the itching, to scratch it hot and raw and burn him from the inside out and hold him still and he needs something to sink his teeth into. 

 

His mouth is a desert, and he needs the water, and it's there. He drops to his knees, and he looks up at the beta, who smirks, smirks, smirks, tapping the open mouth of the bottle off Foggy's bottom lip, splashing water until he can't help but to lick. It's not about sex, though Foggy can smell the beginning of beta arousal with his heat-heightened senses. His primal omega-hindbrain wants the healthiest, best mate to give him the healthiest, best baby, and this beta isn't it. Not by a long shot. 

 

Heat and thirst make him shameless enough to ignore the people behind him. He wraps his lips around the bottle and drinks, going through the motion of looking up at the beta's face. It doesn't really register, and when the bottle is mostly empty, Foggy reaches up and grabs at and rams upwards with it, right into the beta's crotch as hard as he can. The beta sucks air, mouth gaping as he staggers back, and the primal omega-hindbrain has him up and on the beta before he's even staggered out the door. 

 

For the good it does. These traffickers aren't amateurs by any means. There are more guards down the hallway, and Foggy's too angry to be trying to escape, too busy digging his thumbs into the soft flesh of the beta's throat and trying to kill him even though he doesn't know how. It isn't easy for them to haul him off the beta, but he's a bit too single-minded to focus on fighting them off. 

 

"Jesus," one says as they heave Foggy roughly back through the door. "What the hell is wrong with that one?" 

 

The door clicks shut before anyone answers him, the locks clicking back in place. Foggy rolls over onto his side, favoring his ribs a bit, but he's pretty sure he's mostly just sore from the rough handling. 

 

"What an asshole," he grunts, shifting gingerly to his feet. 

 

"Are you fucking crazy," one of the beta-femmes asks; she's not from the long-term group. Actually, she could have been the one that Foggy saw being abducted, he thinks. 

 

"Yeah," Foggy agrees, but he can't really help it right now. It was the same shit that made him throw his ice cream at kidnappers instead of calling the police like a sane, rational human being. 

 

No omega in heat is a sane, rational human being. Foggy just happens to be in the 3% defective percentile - he needs to get fucked, but he attacks any alpha that gets close enough to try. 

 

Betas need not apply. 

 

\--

 

It's easy to lose track of time in the room. There's no windows and only the dull bulb hanging overhead and the sounds that come from above them aren't regular enough to track the passage of time by. No one comes to check on them for more than long enough for the bottles of water to empty and be placed in a pile to be used later. 

 

None of which matters to Foggy. He's lost of sense of it, huddled in the corner furthermost from the door. His clothing is drenched and he feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin. He needs, needs, needs something in him, but there's nothing and even if there was, it wouldn't be the right thing. He feels hollowed out, like something in the pit of him is sucking it all out and emptying him, like a devouring black hole that he needs blocked up or it's going to eat him alive, chew him up and spit him out. He fidgets, and stirs, but doesn't bother to get up. There's no point in it. He burns. He needs. 

 

His mouth is dry and feels tacky and gritty for it, and his head aches. His skin is too hot with no more sweat to cool it. There's a fire inside him and he can't quench it. He's going to die. He's going to die. 

 

(He's not going to die, no one has ever died from estrus, even if he can't drink water. Omegas and alphas get trapped in collapsed buildings and go into heat or rut all the time while being unable to move and survive for a week just fine. He's not going to die. He just feels like it.)

 

Fuck, Foggy's going to kill himself. He's going to bite his own wrist out. (No he's not, he just wants to.)

 

At first, it's not clear that anything is wrong, but then the increased activity upstairs erupts with a thud. It sounds like violence, like stomping or fighting, and everyone stirs apprehensively and stares ceilingward. 

 

Cautiously, one of the beta-femmes ventures to say, "It's the Mask." Her face breaks out into a hopeful expression, almost awe-filled, and it spreads to the others like a viral infection. 

 

It takes Foggy's hot and angry brain a few moments to comprehend what that means, and oh. Oh right. He's heard about the Man in the Mask. Not much, but some. He seriously doubts that some masked vigilante is coming to their rescue, though; it's more likely that it's a rival trafficking ring. An operation of this size is bound to attract attention. 

 

They all startle violently when a gun fires overhead, some of the beta-femmes screaming involuntarily in alarm. Foggy curses, feeling his heart begin to hammer. Gunfire almost always means murder; at least in this case, it's absolutely criminal, if only because a crime is already in progress. It's chilling to think that people are getting killed upstairs. 

 

The worst part of it is that there isn't anything to do but to wait. There were no weapons, nothing of use beyond the clothes on their bodies and their bodies themselves. Foggy is in heat -  _really_ in heat, not just the beginning of it when its not actually all that unpleasant, but in the all-encompassing idiocy-inducing midst of it. If anyone other than an omega or a beta-femme comes through that door, Foggy's going to get himself bred or killed, one of the two. 

 

Maybe both. He aches, all over, inside and out. His teeth feel sharp. 

 

After some time, it finally goes silent upstairs. And eventually there's even shuffling, unsteady footsteps in the hallway, and slowly, painfully the unlocking chains, and the door. It opens. 

 

The others have surged to their feet and their bodies block Foggy's view of the door. They linger there, uncertainly, until at last the silence is broken. 

 

"Go," rasps the Mask, thick and painful, and every hair on Foggy's body stands on end. "Get out of here! Down the hallway, up the stairs. Go!"

 

Foggy doesn't move. Foggy can smell the Man in the Mask from the back wall, thanks to the way the hot, stale air billows out and the slightly fresher air from the hallway sweeps in. He's either going to try to fight the Man in the Mask, or he's going to try to fuck him, and right now the Man in the Mask doesn't look up to either of those things. 

 

"You coming?" The young omega who has been trying to take care of him lingers at his side, looking concerned. "It's alright, you know. He's not bad. Not like - the other alphas."

 

"You'd better go ahead," Foggy says and doesn't get up. 

 

The room clears both too slowly and too fast, and the Man in the Mask is slumped against the far wall in the hallway, directly across from the door. There's something wet and discolored smeared around his nostrils, and a faint chemical smell, sharp and astringent. He shakes, slightly, and he's breathing deep, and he doesn't move. 

 

His chin and jaw are stubbled and Foggy wants to bite them, wants to pull blood on those red and bruised lips. He smells like sweat and blood, and there are cuts on him, in his clothes, and he's bleeding and Foggy wants to lick it up and be pinned down, he wants to say  _you won me so receive your prize_ , he wants to sink his teeth in and wear bruises and scars in silver crescents. 

 

Foggy says, "If I go outside like this, there will be a riot."

 

The Man in the Mask shudders, sucking in a heavy breath that leaves his lips parted. He swallows, his throat bobbing. Foggy is going to bite it. (He's not going to bite it, he's not going anywhere near the alpha-homme in the doorway.)

 

"I won't let anything happen to you," the Man in the Mask says. The words feel like fingers stroked right up Foggy's spine. 

 

"Nothing's going to happen to me because I'm not going out on the street like this," Foggy says testily, flexing his hands where they're knotting into his pants leg. He amends, "I don't want to stay here, either, buddy, but if I get in arms reach of you, I'm gonna do something we're both gonna regret." 

 

"I won't lay a hand on you," the Man in the Mask promises, but his words sound a little loose and slurred and his neck is flushed. 

 

That's probably for the best, Foggy thinks, no matter how viciously disappointed he is. He isn't really worried about the Man in the Mask laying a hand on him; the alpha might be clinging to the wall like it's his last hold on sanity, but he's still at the wall, and that's a good sign. 

 

No, Foggy is worried about what he himself might do. He's slightly more sure now that he won't attack the Man in the Mask the moment he's within arm's reach, but that can change in a moment. There's a reason why Foggy spends his heats alone, after all. 

 

But at the moment, he wants to climb the Man in the Mask and fuck him right there in the hallway. He desperately needs that cock inside him and plugging him up before he falls to pieces, something to ground him, something to hold him down and hold him tight, and he needs that mouth on his skin and those teeth in his flesh or he might start screaming. He's going to claw the Man in the Mask's skin until every inch remembers him and can't forget. 

 

"Listen," the Man in the Mask says with some urgency, "how long do you think it's going to take emergency services to get here? And the cops? They'll search the entire building." 

 

Foggy stares at him. Did this asshole really call the cops after breaking up a human trafficking ring? "The fuck is wrong with you," he says, then "I can't stay here. I don't want to stay here, but now I can't. Fuck." 

 

The primal omega-hindbrain kicks into gear; finding a suitable mate is nothing compared to be hassled by a mob of suitors, even if some of them might be acceptable. Foggy scrambles to his feet, wobbling a bit as his inactivity catches up to him, then grimly makes for the door. 

 

The Man in the Mask flattens himself against the wall, and even with whatever he's smeared on his face to try to cut the smell of Foggy's heat, he smells - too good. He smells like something that should be wrapped around a stick and licked and savored to the last melted drop. Blood and sweat shouldn't smell this good to Foggy, he's never remembered it making his mouth water like this before, as parched as he is, but he wants to suck it off the Man in the Mask's skin. 

 

Foggy needs to find someplace remote and dark where no one's going to disturb them. "Alley," he says. 

 

The Man in the Mask peels himself off the wall and darts by Foggy, leading the way. 

 

Foggy's not sure how many of the bodies they bypass and step over are alive, and he doesn't particularly care. He normally would, but normally he's not in heat and he hasn't been kidnapped by human traffickers, so. 

 

Somehow it makes perfect logic to the Man in the Mask to use a window for an exit, and again: normally this would give Foggy problems, but right now he needs somewhere safe and secure and far away from everyone else who will be able to smell him now that he's out in the open air. 

 

Also, the Man in the Mask is a dirty liar, because he stands out in the alley and puts his hands on Foggy to help him out the window. Foggy grabs him by the face and bites his mouth and licks into it, hot and wet and tasting faintly metallic, like blood. The Man in the Mask grunts into the kiss, and Foggy faintly registers that he has the alpha against a wall and his hands are grappling at Foggy's shoulders.

 

A shout of laughter on the street startles Foggy back. It's too far away to have anything to do with them, but it reminds him sharply of where he's at and what he's doing. Glancing down the alley toward the street, he makes to step away but there is one hand on his shoulder and the other around his neck. Foggy is reeled back in for a rough kiss, sharp around the edges in a way that makes everything feel hot and liquid inside of him. He feels more than hears the noise he makes, but it makes the Man in the Mask push him away and eel sideways until he can get away from the wall. 

 

"Sorry," the Man in the Mask rasps, "I didn't -" 

 

Whoever is out on the street at this time of night is coming closer, and the fear of discovery proves to be enough to make Foggy snatch at his alpha. 

 

"Sorry can wait," he says, tugging him further down the alley. "Get me the fuck off the streets before I get sniffed out." 

 

The Man in the Mask makes some kind of dark, half-strangled noise, but he gets with the program at least. Foggy though he was pretty familiar with the alleys of Manhattan, but he's not a vigilante, either. They take a few turns and dash across a few streets, chased by shouts and laughter because even when they aren't seen, they can smell Foggy. 

 

With a great deal of coaxing, the Man in the Mask gets Foggy up into a fire escape and pulls the ladder back up behind them. He urges Foggy up to a certain window and then teases it open. Foggy trips getting through it because the Man in the Mask is trying to fit through with him and they tumble into the apartment and onto the floor. The fall is barely cushioned by a plush rug. 

 

Foggy's hot and panting from running all those blocks and then climbing a fire escape, but also because his alpha is pressing him down against the thick rug with hard, strong hands and his hot mouth is pressed to his jaw. His stubble rasps against his check and his chin and it feels like torture and it feels amazing and he doesn't know his mouth is wide open until the keen that builds in his throat spills forth of its own volition. 

 

The Man in the Mask keeps touching him, wide possessive sweeps with his hand, up and over his shoulders and down his sides and over his chest and back. Foggy thinks he should be biting, he should be kicking, but his alpha smells amazing, like clean sweat and rusty blood and hot and musky. Good mate material - ideal mate material, his primal omega-hindbrand tells him. 

 

His alpha is rubbing his face into Foggy's sweater, his chest and his shoulder, and then he scrubs beard burn into the other side of Foggy's neck, groaning and rocking the hard line of his cock into Foggy's thigh. "Fuck," he says, quiet, like he doesn't even realize he's saying it, "fuck, fuck, fuck." His hands are powerful, gripping, sliding down to roam over Foggy's ass and trace around the shape of his thighs like he has to discover it with his fingertips, map it out and claim every inch. 

 

Foggy digs his nails into the back of the Man in the Mask's shirt when those strong hands slide up to cup him through his pants. "Okay," he pants, "Okay. Clothes. Clothes off. I need. I need -" He grips and tugs at his alpha, only for the Man in the Mask to jerk under his hands and hiss. The smell of fresh blood bursts bright and hot over the back of Foggy's tongue. "Fuck," he adds. His alpha's injured - right. 

 

"No, no," the Man in the Mask says, baring down on him, and he kisses Foggy just the way he did in the alley, that way that makes Foggy feel all hot and liquid. "It's fine," he urges into Foggy's mouth, stroking him through his pants until Foggy's thighs have fallen wide open and there are strange noises coming out of Foggy's mouth. He's never heard himself sound like that before. 

 

"Okay," Foggy says, "but you're not. But." He arches helplessly into the Man in the Mask; he must have laser-guided hotspot radar because he seems to know just what is working for Foggy. "If I'm on my knees -" 

 

It's the most vulnerable position for an omega to be in. There's very little way for them to defend themselves, with their face down and their ass in the air - humiliating. Most omega won't stand for it. Foggy had thought that it was the only option for him, but he's never had a chance to find out - every heat has made him too irritable and sharp to let one close enough to try. 

 

He doesn't feel angry or irritable right now, actually doesn't want to hurt the Man in the Mask at all, and - and he wants it. Foggy wants to be stretched out under the Man in the Mask, on his knees with no way to fight back, held down and held tight and safely pinned and bred. 

 

The Man in the Mask makes a noise that might be a choke and might be a gasp, might be anything. "Are you sure?" he asks desperately. "I don't think I can -" He swallows, desperately, and says, low and wretched, "the way you smell - the way you feel - stopping is -" The words tumble and trip out of his mouth and dam up, and he moves restlessly against him like a molten tide made of flesh and blood. 

 

Sane, rational Foggy would find that terrifying. The primal omega-hindbrain rolls over to show its belly and starts to purr. Foggy, wrenched both ways and sticky and slick and gagging for it, sobs. 

 

"Please," he says, arching under the Man in the Mask, trying to press closer. "Please, come on, you've gotta give it to me, please, it'll be so good, it'll be good for you - it'll be good, I  _promise_ \- come on, please,  _please_ !" He's going to die. He's burning up and he's going to die, he's going to leak out and rattle to pieces if his alpha doesn't pin him down and fuck him and fill him up and tie him. 

 

The Man in the Mask makes a noise like he's been punched, and somehow he manages to flip Foggy - to put him on his knees without wrenching anything, and one hand goes right between Foggy's shoulder blades and the Man in the Mask  _leans_ on it and holds him there. It's not enough to knock the air out of Foggy, but he has to catch it anyway, and he says, "Please." The Man in the Mask leans over his back and shushes him, for what good it does when his cock is hard and hot through their clothing against Foggy. He pushes back into it helplessly; he needs it inside him, doesn't his alpha understand that? He needs it or he's going to burn up inside. 

 

"I've got you," the Man in the Mask says, low and soothing and desperate and wrecked. He rests his forehead there, where his hand had pressed between Foggy's shoulder blades, and his hand slides down over Foggy's sweater and snags in the hem of his pants, sliding them off. The air is cool against his dry skin, and icy where slick has smeared over it; the smell is stronger now, and the Man in the Mask exhales long and slow and takes a quaking breath. It feels like he's shaking, or maybe that's Foggy. 

 

There's movement along Foggy's back, and it's not until the Man in the Mask twists his head and there is the sound of snaps giving way that Foggy realizes he's biting the glove off and what he wouldn't do to be able to see that. 

 

Then he forgets all about it as two bare fingers push inside him, sliding in sweet and easy; he's deep into his heat, has been ready to be fucked with very little preparation for hours and hours now, and he finally has something to scratch the itch and it's not enough. He says "please," he begs, he begs as sweetly as he can for what he really needs until the Man in the Mask is apologizing, meeting every 'please' with a 'sorry', but he keeps twisting his fingers inside Foggy, rubbing inside him and grinding his cock against Foggy's hip and it's the worst torture that he's ever been through, ever, ever. 

 

He's melted inside, everything that's him has melted and it's all leaking out, he can feel it in the thick, slick way that the Man in the Mask's knuckles slide against his thigh. Something wretched and broken twists out of his throat, and the Man in the Mask makes a noise like it hurts him, and finally, finally, he pulls his fingers out, only that's worse. He didn't think it could be, but it is. 

 

Foggy can feel the hand between them, fumbling, and then he hears the sound of the belt unbuckling, of a bitten, annoyed word, and finally a zipper. The Man in the Mask's body is hot against Foggy's bare skin, a kiss of body heat like a promise, and then he's giving Foggy what he's needed all along. 

 

It's not as big as some of his toys but it's so much better, so unbelievably better, and not just for the weight of someone at his back, hitching breath and broken noises, but for the warm and the unmistakable feel of actual living flesh. This is what he's wanted all along and it's so good. Thick and hot and stretching him wide, prodding into him and making a space there, like he isn't hollow and hungry for it. 

 

The Man in the Mask draws a desperate, hurting breath, and his hand is wet with Foggy's slick and slides over Foggy's hip, and he pushes. He pushes in, pushes until there's nowhere to push to and still leans into it, leans into it and lifts his head and that's his mouth, hot on Foggy's shoulder, and sharp teeth. He makes a noise, low and rough and rumbling, that shakes through his teeth and into Foggy, and then he makes Foggy his.

 

That's what it feels like. Foggy is awkwardly pushed into the rug, only barely on his knees at all, and the Man in the Mask has his hips in both hands. They clamp powerfully into his flesh, and he's going to bruise - he bruises like a peach, but this will be bone deep, he thinks - and he wants it. He wants it that way. He's on his knees with no defense, and those hands hold his hips still as the Man in the Mask fucks him with sharp thrusts, seeking his rhythm. Foggy gets to hold on and take it, and so that's what he does. 

 

It's so, so good. It burns through him, more powerfully than anything he felt before. He itches and this scratches it until it's raw, a constant, insistent ownership. This is his alpha, inside him, owning him, with his teeth and with his cock. 

 

It gets better, hotter, sweeter. The Man in the Mask finds his rhythm, a little smoother than those first interrogative thrusts, but no less intense, no less demanding. He fucks Foggy like it's his mission, like he has devoted his life to it here, in this instant. It's too much - it's not enough. He needs to get away from it but he can't, he needs to press closer and can't do that either. He digs his fingers into the looped rope rug and arches his back, because he needs, he needs, he needs something, he needs this, he needs more, he needs - 

 

It crashes into him, in the space between them, where he's being fucked within an inch of his life, where a fire is being stoked or maybe banked inside him, where a pants zipper is scratching his skin, where he's dripping wet and being made tender and raw. His thighs wobble dangerously, and his breath hitches, and then he's coming, and it shakes him, takes a hold of his core and shakes it so hard everything falls to the floor, and there's no point in picking it up because he's still being shaken apart.

 

The beginning swell of his alpha's knot makes lewd noises, slick and wet, and the Man in the Mask moans into Foggy's shoulder, thrusting harder, thrusting faster. Foggy feels hot and white and soft and then red and raw, arousal swelling back up so hot and fast under the bliss that it almost hurts, and it wrings an answering moan from Foggy. He needs it. 

 

He can't help baring down around it, from trying to catch it; he needs it to hold him together, he almost has it, he just needs to get it. Pressing back, he cants his hips up. He doesn't realize he's reached back until he feels the rough cloth of pants, of a belt loop, but he pulls. "Please," he says, and his alpha's teeth break skin in a hot rush of pain and his hips jerk forward, pressing in hard and twitching in desperate little motions like he wants to keep fucking Foggy but he's at Foggy's whims.

 

It's too late, anyway. His alpha's knot is swelling hot and thick inside him, stretching him, and Foggy sobs with relief. It's over - his torment is over, for a while at least, and all that's left is a sweet, slightly delirious feeling. The Man in the Mask's hands pry loose from his hips, sweeping up over his belly; he's hot and thick and hard inside Foggy, but his touch is light, searching, and Foggy shivers under it with a sigh. 

 

Gingerly, the Man in the Mask loosens his bite, and he must have drawn blood because he mouths the tender spot, laving it with his tongue, pulling back the neck of Foggy's sweater with one hand while the other continues its journey. His breath hitches against Foggy's damp skin, and he shifts over and tests his teeth against the back of Foggy's neck. It's strange, but Foggy feels loose and buzzing and doesn't bother to worry about it, savoring the way the knot inside him is stretching him, holding him still and sealing him up so he can't spill out. 

 

It twitches inside him, the Man in the Mask's cock, and wrings a breathy little noise out of Foggy. He pushes back with nowhere to go, and the Man in the Mask flexes into him, and for a few seconds their breaths sync as they ride it out. Foggy doesn't know how he's supposed to go back to waiting his heats out alone after this. His knees ache, and the Man in the Mask's skin sticks to his, wet with sweat, tacky with slick, his stomach against Foggy's lower back, and it's gross and it feels luxurious. 

 

It could probably be better if either one of them were actually naked, and preferably both of them. 

 

It takes Foggy a ridiculously long time to realize that the Man in the mask has settled his forehead against Foggy's unmarked shoulder. There's a distinct air of brooding to his silence. Who even does that? Brood while still tied to someone else? 

 

"You alright back there?" Foggy asks. His voice rasps from the stupid amount of noises he had made and thirst, but he's pretty proud of how together he sounds, considering he's just had some pretty amazing sex. 

 

The Man in the Mask exhales. "I should be asking you that," he says, slightly strained. His hips push into Foggy like he can't really help it, but there's no getting deeper or closer - Foggy still appreciates the effort, breath catching as he arches back and bares down, and the Man in the Mask inhales sharp and deep, pressing his face into Foggy's back. 

 

When he can, Foggy answers, "Nah," and his voice is slightly wobbly. "I'm good. Better than good. Omegas are built to take multiple partners, or didn't they ever teach you that in school?"

 

The Man in the Mask follows his face with the rest of his body, pressing close and tight over Foggy and threatening to cause them some sex injuries if Foggy's knees give out. His slack hands tighten against Foggy's skin, threatening to slip back to his hips like it'll do some good, but the Man in the Mask catches them in time. 

 

He's already shown his hand, though, and an entirely different part of Foggy's body goes soft and gooey at that, which is - hormones. Just hormones, of course. Because Foggy is a sane and rational human being, and not his primal omega-hindbrain, thank you very much. 

 

He's not his primal omega-hindbrain, but it's got some good ideas, mostly involving wiggling around on his alpha's cock and making the Man in the Mask grapple with him until he is pinned flat to the rug with the heavy heat of his alpha over him and his hot mouth and sharp teeth at his neck. 

 

"Sorry," the Man in the Mask says into his skin, breathless and strained, so apparently he's struggling with his alpha-hindbrain, and that is - that's good. Foggy can't find breath or words to say that much, but he thinks his moaning might get the point across. 

 

It must. It feels good, so Foggy gives a mental shrug and gives over to his instincts. 

 

His instincts get him bitten and bruised in the best way, the Man in the Mask's hands and mouth all over him. He holds Foggy down even after they've come apart, touching at Foggy's bruised ribs and the long-forgotten tender spot on his skull from when they abducted him, keeps touching him and mumbling senseless soothing things that keep him pliant until he aches. Then Man in the Mask says "can I" and "I need" and Foggy says "yeah" and "please," and they fuck on the rug again, just as desperate and needy as the first time. 

 

The third time is gentler. Sweeter. Foggy doesn't remember getting onto the sofa that sits just above the rug, but he doesn't remember being lifted either and isn't sure even the Man in the Mask could have managed that. He ends up holding on the arm of it anyway, shaking on his knees as his alpha comes apart above him, rocking into him though they're already locked together and making small noises, little gulps and quiet gasps, his breath catching. 

 

They fall together on the sofa, exhausted and trembling, and even sleep for a while. Foggy's parched mouth and throat eventually drive him to his feet, and he leaves the Man in the Mask curled on the sofa looking tired and hurt but at ease. It takes a bit of fumbling in the dark before Foggy locates the kitchen, and by that time the Man in the Mask has woken, and they drink directly from the faucet with cupped hands. 

 

Foggy thinks he's going to make a joke, except that he's silenced by a mouth against his and a bristled chin, and the Man in the Mask pins him down and bites his thighs and fucks him into the cool tile until he's a boneless, quivering mess. 

 

Either physics or Foggy is going to give first. It has to be hormones talking, but even as his body gets more tired and sore, the sex gets better, like the first few times were just practice runs. 

 

It seems pointless to get up, and cool tile is soothing to his burning body. Foggy curls up at the bottom of the cabinets and drifts, only vaguely aware of the Man in the Mask leaving a glass of water within his reach. He's better aware of him curling in over him, wary and watchful and looking dangerous with his mask and his bristling jaw. 

 

At some point they get up and find their way back into the living room. The smell of heat and sex are strongest there, and Foggy isn't even surprised when they tumble together. Somehow the Man in the Mask gets the cushions off the sofa and pushes Foggy onto his back and into them, and fucks him with with his mouth on the pulse in his neck. 

 

They're both wrecked, trembling, weak. The Man in the Mask's hands feel demanding - hungry, needy - and he holds on tight, like Foggy is something precious that might be taken away. Foggy kisses that loose, red mouth, swallows those heaving, hurt breaths; those hands make his heart hurt, and they tighten with every kiss and every shared breath until the Man in the Mask bends his head to Foggy's shoulder and won't lift it. 

 

They sleep on the cushions, solid and deep and - at least for him - dreamless. Foggy doesn't wake up until the morning light is coming in through the window. He immediately knows that his heat is finished, and he's alone in a strange apartment, covered in bites and bruises and aching all over. There's an afghan slung over him, and his clothing is covered with rusty smears of dried blood. 

 

Foggy supposes that he could hardly expect a wanted vigilante to stick around after a heat-hookup. If he's disappointed at all, that's just the hormones talking. 

 

Putting the sofa back together seems like the right thing to do, except there are stains that he's not sure will come out, and it saps the rest of his strength. Half of a quart of ice cream seems so long ago. There are pictures on the wall, suggesting that this extremely expensive looking apartment belongs to two fairly well-off betas. Foggy feels bad enough about the stains that have dried into their things that he doesn't help himself to the contents of their refrigerator. 

 

He doesn't feel badly enough not to make use of their shower, and he bags up his clothing and takes a change from the beta-homme's wardrobe. They certainly look like they can afford it, anyway. 

 

Foggy allows himself one last moment of imagining what might have been written on a piece of paper and caught between the window and the sill. Then he reminds himself that he is twenty years past dreaming fairytales, cracks the window open, and leaves by way of the fire escape. 

 

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yes, that was the story about how Matt lost his virginity. 
> 
> I want everyone to take a moment to imagine Matt tumbling in through Claire's window, stinking of heat-sex and just being all overwrought and generally freaked out, and she's just like "MATT WHY" and Matt's like "I DONT KNOOOOW" (but he's honestly just gone to ground to the only place he feels safe so he can regroup) and she makes him take a shower and sticks him in a corner with a blanket and some tea just shakin' her head and he's just doing his sad puppy impression. Because that is literally what happens. 
> 
> Like, when Claire told Matt she wasn't gonna hook up with him, she never expected to become his life coach/den-mother, but here she is like "Matt I didn't raise you to bang an omega as your stupid vigilante persona and then go fleeing into the night!" and he's like "but Claire being a vigilante is why you won't love me and now this omega won't love me either" and Claire is just so done because there is not a day she is not done with Matt's self-inflicted suffering.


	2. interlude [muffled clair de lune playing in the distance]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matt tumbles in claire's window, stinking of heat-sex and just being all overwrought and generally freaked out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blame [Evpher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Evpher/pseuds/Evpher), who enabled me into writing this. I, alas, can not write comedy, so have some drama instead.

* * *

 

 

The day starts with a thump, which is unfortunate, because Claire's only had all of three hours of sleep at this time. It's a familiar thump, though, and so many months and months of training have Claire rolling out of bed before she even consciously thinks: _Wait a moment, I told that asshole not to come over without calling first -_

 

By the time that thought registers, Claire has already made it out of her bedroom, and by the time that thought completes, it's in her face and in her nose, hot and raw like blood and salt.

 

"Matt, what the fuck," she says, too shocked to manage her instinctive reaction as every nerve immediately goes on edge.

 

Matt wobbles up off the floor, practically ripping the mask from his head. He looks pale and shocky and he's panting and one eye is black and swollen and his clothing is torn and stained with blood and - well. "Claire," he says, a touch helplessly, then begins staggering toward her couch.

 

She snaps out of her shock. "Oh, no you don't," she says, scurrying forward. She reminds herself that this is a patient at the moment, not Matt - but all the same, she is not having him rub the smell of some other omega into her couch. "Are you dying," she asks shortly, but she doesn't expect a real answer from him. He's probably not, she reasons, watching him veer instinctively away from her hands and stagger in a slightly confused circle, flexing his hands. "Alright," she says, "into the shower with you. I can't believe you tracked that smell to my house, Murdock! My neighbors are going to have a field day with this."

 

"I didn't - I should leave," he says, twisting around on his heel to head back toward the window.

 

"Like hell you are," she says, stepping around him and cutting him off. The fact that she manages says a lot more about his mindset at the moment than his words do. He looks wrecked. There's the normal damage of a sleepless night and a hard fight barely won, thick stubble on his jaw and a certain hollowness in his cheeks and around his eyes. There's the abnormal damage of kiss bruised lips and hot spots of color high in his cheeks, and the way his wide, sightless eyes are blown dark with only a thin ring of hazel around the edge. He is so pale that the faint freckles on his nose stand out in stark relief.

 

"No, I should - I should leave. I should go back. I just left him, so I should go back. He might - might -" Matt rambles, and his hands are shaking a bit.

 

"If I know you at all, he's fine," Claire says shortly, even though she's only half sure of that. Matt can be pretty thoughtless, case in point, and the hormones that flood an alpha when they catch scent of an omega in heat? Not exactly conducive to careful thought.

 

Of course, Matt also spends most nights scenting out one omega or another in heat, so maybe he's used to it. Perils of having super senses in a densely populated city, Claire thinks. She also thinks it must have been some omega to actually convince Matt to give into his instincts, except that part pisses her off a bit so she stops thinking about it immediately.

 

She does not need the complications of having an alpha who is also a vigilante, she reminds herself. It's the sane, rational choice.

 

"Shower," she tells Matt sternly, and though he licks his lips and chews them and sniffs forlornly at the window, he lets her herd him back toward the shower.

 

She packages his discarded clothing into one of the biohazard bags she's started keeping around since Matt first face-planted into her life; at least there the smell of a strange omega's heat is much less offensive. Not her property, she reminds herself sternly - even if Matt did smell like her most nights, if only because he spends too many nights on her couch and comes to her wounded and begging for stitches and TLC at least three times a month.

 

Then she turns around and heats up some water. She needs coffee and Matt probably needs something to calm him down, something that will let his stupid alpha instincts stop jangling him and fighting against his common sense. Not that Matt has a lot of common sense, she thinks, and rubs her hands over her face and laughs into them a bit. Any other alpha never would have come into an omega's house smelling like that, not unless they wanted to start a fight or a jealous rampage.

 

Matt's a lot of things, but conniving is not one of them.

 

But if she's going to tolerate him in her home for however long it takes for Matt to get his head on straight, he's going to need to smell a lot more like her.

 

She feels a bit better when he emerges from the bathroom, slotted into some of her ex's old clothes that she keeps around for this purpose exactly. He's made clear concessions to her unspoken wants, because she can smell her own shampoo and body wash on him, even though he's remarked before that the smell of it bothers him. At the time, she'd willfully kept using it, because she's already been through that abusive bullshit and wasn't going to change her favorite things to suit any alpha ever again.

 

"Feel better?" She asks, even as she hands him the mug of peppermint tea.

 

Matt doesn't answer, seating himself on her couch in a weirdly small space. He doesn't look relaxed, and his eyes are still blown, but at least he's not pale and shaky anymore. She thinks they'll need to keep the heat of the shower in, and gets the blanket she keeps in the living room and pulls it around his shoulders like he's all of five and home sick with a cold.

 

He grasps at the edges of the blanket, stroking it slightly before tugging it close around his shoulders and snuffling at it a bit. That's really not typical post-heat alpha behavior, she thinks, watching him. The fact that he left the omega at all is strange enough on its own; the fact that he's acting shocky is kind of -

 

Claire sets her coffee on the table and goes back to her bedroom where she keeps her monitoring kit. It's meant for omega hormones, but she can get a good idea what Matt's full of with it. She brings the machine and one of the test strips back to the living room.

 

"Hey," she says, "open up for me for a second."

 

It takes Matt a few second to hear her, and then he smells the chemicals on the strip. He wrinkles his nose and looks at her reproachfully, but something like habit makes him open his mouth. She tucks it into place between his molars and tongue and starts up the machine while she waits for the reaction to take place.

 

The results she gets once she inserts the strip into the monitor only confuse her more; they're exactly what she would expect them to be. So Matt wasn't dosed with inducers and they're not high enough to indicate that shock caused the onset of an unexpected rut. So whatever is going on with Matt is probably either a super senses thing, or a Matt thing. Claire gives him another appraising look and decides: probably a Matt thing.

 

Claire sits down across from him, exchanging her monitor for her coffee, already cooling. "Alright, Matt," she says, "Talk to me. Are you okay?"

 

He startles a bit, like he was drifting off, or coming out of a day-dream, his lashes fluttering a bit as he takes stock of himself. "Yeah," he says, "Fine. I don't - I don't know why I came here, I'm not that badly injured." He reaches up to prod at the edges of his black eye, but it isn't even the worst one he's ever sported, hours past time for icing as it is.

 

Claire sits back and rubs briefly at her temple before she picks up her coffee and takes a drink. The sound seems to remind Matt of what he has in his hands, because he follows suit, grimacing slightly. She's not wasting honey on his stupid ass, no matter how in need of comfort he might be; Claire subscribes to tough love when it comes to grown-ass alphas, and she's pretty sure be brought this on himself. "Okay," she says flatly. "Wanna talk about what happened? Because if I remember correctly you've never gone after an omega in heat before."

 

Matt blushes, sudden and bright. It makes his ears glow even if the dim gray morning light coming in the window. "No," he says, hunching his shoulders and bending over his cup of tea like he's going to hide behind the steam or something. "No, I don't want to talk about it."

 

"Oh, okay," she says, "So you just came tumbling into my home, reeking of heat-sex, because you're completely fine with whatever happened between you and that poor dumb omega that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Did you at least take your mask off?"

 

Matt looks at her with the most guilty expression she has possibly ever seen on a human being.

 

"You didn't take your mask off," she says flatly.

 

"There were other things on my mind at the time," he grumbles into the corner of the blanket.

 

"You didn't take your mask off and you left them."

 

"Him."

 

"Oh, well, 'him', fine, whatever, Matt," she says sharply, exhaling. This was exactly why she had told Matt that they would never be more than friends. Or - no, that was wrong, that wasn't why, but it was a brilliant reminder of how good of a decision it was to have turned him down in the first place.

 

Granted, the mask probably barely registered with the omega in question, because details like that mattered very little during a heat, but she still has to feel for him a bit. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe the omega has a superhero kink – one could only hope, for his sake.

 

"So," Claire says. "You went out - looking for Demetrius -"

 

"I found him," Matt offers, a bit eagerly, like he thinks she may have forgotten all about the rest of it. "Him and others. They led me right to them, when they took him."

 

"Okay, good," she says, and she means it. Brianna's kid and more, then. Although - "Matt. Tell me the omega in question wasn't among the people you rescued."

 

Matt twitches. "Okay," he says, "I won't."

 

Claire stares at him for a moment. He hasn't exactly shed his guilty look from earlier, but it had faded a bit; now it's back with a vengeance, even though he's drinking his tea and the bitterness is clearly hurting him. "You rescued," she says slowly, "an omega in heat from human traffickers, and you - you had sex with him, and you left him before morning."

 

"It wasn't like that," he says, hunching in on himself, which is completely contradictory to the words coming out of his mouth. So it was exactly like that.

 

"Oh my god," Claire says, and takes herself and her cold cup of coffee to the kitchen so she can wash it and not look at Matt.

 

"It wasn't like that," Matt calls after her a little desperately.

 

"I'm not talking to you right now," she says, not bothering to raise her voice. Matt doesn't need her to. She washes her coffee cup and the sink, even though the sink is clean enough to eat off of already, because she washes it every time she does the dishes. She washes the sink and the counter and then she dries her hands and goes to stand in the doorway and glare at the back of Matt's head. He's pulled the blanket up to the bottom of his ears, and has somehow managed to make himself look even smaller under it.

 

"I'll go and find him," Matt says, low and bruised, "and I'll - explain - apologize -"

 

"The hell you are, Matt," she says with an explosive breath. "Absolutely not! Look, the damage is already done. You can't go hunting down an omega just because you had sex with them during a heat! Especially because you had sex with them during a heat."

 

Matt turns, looking pinched and earnest. "No, you're right," he says, "I have to. I should at least - he deserves that, at least, after what I -"

 

"No," she interrupts, holding her hands out. "No, no, no, Matt, you don't. Trust me, the last thing he wants right now is some strange alpha stalking him. That is legitimately terrifying. The number one fear of omegas who have sex with strangers during their heat is having that alpha follow them home, or showing up at their place of work. You need to stay away from him. Especially since you're showing signs of getting over-invested in this."

 

"I'm not over-invested, Claire," Matt says, scowling. "And I'm not going to stalk him. I just have to explain what happened. Why I left. I just have to - I broke my word. I told him I wouldn't lay a hand on him, but -" He wavers between anger and guilt, and his hand spasms on the cup of tea.

 

"Not my good mugs," Claire snaps, stepping forward to take it away from him. Matt has never broken her things in one of his fits of can't-deal-with-his-feelings, but she's seen him break things before. He sighs when she takes it from him and runs his hands through his hair, pulling at it with a tense, unhappy look. "Let me get this straight," she adds, looking down at him. "You rescued this guy from human traffickers, promised not to lay a hand on him, and ended up screwing him anyway."

 

"He kissed me," Matt says defensively, tilting his head back to show her a look that is all chin and raised brows and flared nostrils; his wide eyes stare somewhere off past her shoulder. It lasts for all of a second before crumpling into something soft and vulnerable, and that's -

 

Oh, hell. The last time Claire had seen that look, Matt was making moon eyes at her and trying to talk her into giving him a chance.

 

"I can't talk to you right now," she repeats, and goes back into the kitchen to wash his mug, too. This time she doesn't bother with the sink or the counter, but she stands there drying her hands long past the time she needs to. Eventually, she drapes the towel on the lip of her stove and goes back. "You need to take a nap," she tells him. He's hunched up again, rubbing the blanket where it drapes over his knee, and his jaw flexes when she speaks but he doesn't answer. "I'm serious. Do both me and that omega a favor. You need to sleep for a few hours and let your body have time to cycle the hormones through. I need some sleep, for pity's sake. Okay? We're going to go to sleep, and then we'll talk about this in the evening. I want you to promise me, Matt, that you're going to sleep, and you're not going to go out there and hunt that poor omega down."

 

Matt considers it; his face is tilted away from her, but the edges that she can make out look morose. He swallows and says, "Okay," and Claire doesn't bother wondering if she can trust his word; she either can or can't and there's not much she can do about it.

 

"Okay," she says. He'll be fine on the couch; he sleeps on it more often than she cares to think about, so she pats his shoulder as she passes, and goes back to her bedroom to try to get a least a few more hours of sleep.

 

\--

 

It's not entirely clear to Claire whether or not Matt slept at all, because when she gets up, he's apparently mixed and baked a set of scratch biscuits and then returned to sulking on the couch. Claire would be impressed that she slept through the process, except Matt does this every time he has an inner struggle that puts him on her couch. For two months after she turned him down, he baked biscuits and cookies, and on one memorable time, cupcakes before he realized what a chore frosting them would be.

 

Mostly biscuits, though. Flour and baking powder and shortening and salt. Like his dad made, Matt admitted the first time he'd mixed them up and she had asked: _what the hell._ Super senses apparently result in perfectly baked goods every time.

 

"Well, thanks for breakfast," she says dryly, drizzling one with honey. She'll need the energy, she thinks, looking at the alpha camped out on her couch.

 

"Sure," he says, and only mostly sounds sullen, so that's progress.

 

"Have you eaten or drank anything at all?" She remembers to ask. Heat isn't easy on the omega, but it is only a little kinder to the alpha.

 

"Water," Matt offers. "When I made the biscuits."

 

Well. That was more than she was hoping for. "You should eat something," she says, but she doesn't push it and Matt doesn't get up to follow the doctor's orders. Claire waits until she has finished at least one biscuit so that she at least has something in her stomach before they start this again.

 

"Please tell me you understand why you can't go hunt that poor omega down," she says at last.

 

"No, you're right," he says, despondent and grim. Which means he understands that he shouldn't and he won't, but probably not for the right reasons.

 

It'll take someone more tenacious than Claire to deal with Matt's issues, she thinks, and doesn't bother to pursue that line of thought. "So tell me why you're still sulking about it," she says.

 

He cuts a face her direction that is only barely not scathing and doesn't answer. The way his hands flex and take to worrying at the blanket again give him away - this is a Feelings thing, capital 'F'. Matt doesn't do so well with Feelings.

 

"I don't even know his name," Matt says lowly after a while. "I don't know anything about him."

 

"Which is probably why you shouldn't be sitting around like you've gone and broken your own heart," she points out flatly.

 

"I didn't break my heart," he scoffs. "He was just -" He pauses, rolling his fingers together. "Is it normal for an omega in that condition to reject a beta?"

 

Claire's brows arch. "How so?"

 

"It's nothing," he says dismissively, but then he continues: "One of the traffickers. I could smell him on the beta. His breathing was a little -" He makes a vague gesture, and something dark flits across his face before smoothing.

 

"Well. Not normal, no," Claire admits with a frown. While an alpha is ideal, just about anyone would help the situation, so long as there were certain requirements fulfilled. Otherwise no omega would be able to pass a heat alone as most omegas do these days. Matt's suggesting that the omega tried to throttle a beta, which might be reasonable during the early stages of heat, supposing the omega had a mate, but - "Depends on how far along he was."

 

"Far," Matt says, serious; he's clearly remembering, because his face goes a little slack. He adds, apropos of nothing, "lilies."

 

"What."

 

"Nothing," he says quickly.

 

Claire squints at him. "Matt," she says, "this is not a romance novel. Heat does not smell like flowers. I am an actual omega, and a nurse. No one in real life has lips like rose petals."

 

He makes a face at her like a wet cat. "I didn't say he did - any of that," he says sourly. "He was wearing a beta cologne. It had floral notes. And something woodsy. Not sandalwood or Sandalore."

 

Claire takes a moment to lick the spot of honey and crumb off her thumb and then she stands up. "Okay," she says, heading for the kitchen with her plate in hand. "I appreciate you making breakfast and anything, although some protein would have been better than carbs, honestly - but I am not going to sit around and listen to you dissect another omega's cologne."

 

"Claire," he calls after her, half-protest and half-plea.

 

She sets the plate in the sink and sighs loudly. This, she reminds herself, is not entirely Matt's fault. Yes, he got himself into this situation, but he probably didn't choose get this - besotted - over an omega that he knows nothing about and has been forced to give up on.

 

Matt isn't unlike having a teenager in the house, Claire supposes. It's a good thing she doesn't want to have kids - getting frustrated and walking off on a friend is one thing. She can't imagine the responsibility of having to actually sit with someone and help them through their teenage angst.

 

Going back into the living room, she sits down beside Matt on the couch and leans her shoulder into his. It softens the defensive line of his back and unpurses his mouth.

 

"Must have been some omega," she offers.

 

"I don't know," he says despondently, "I think so. Do you -" He hesitates, swallowing dryly. "Do you think, if I see him again - naturally, I mean, not ... not following him home, or anything - do you think it'd be okay? To find out?"

 

Claire wrinkles her nose. Whoever it is won't recognize Matt out of the mask, and in it - well. Hopefully the omega will have half the sense she does and know better than to encourage a vigilante. Matt is an alpha with a mission and no time to devote fully to a lover and definitely not a family.

 

"Matt," she says, "I sincerely hope you're not asking me for dating advice to use on another omega." She sees the wry look cross his face as he realizes his faux pas, and leans up to give him a firm, familial kiss on the cheek. "I have to get to work," she says, standing. "Maybe actually get some sleep this time, Matt. Lock up before you leave."

 

"Yeah, sure," he says.

 

She dodged a bullet with that one, she reminds herself. He won't sleep, and he'll leave maybe ten minutes after her, but he'll lock up. That's at least half of what she asks of him, and it'll have to be enough.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> accidentally name drops someone else's fanfic :'D 
> 
> Welcome to my headcanon that Matt freckles when exposed to sun. You'll be seeing more of that. 
> 
> Matt and Claire will probably always have that weird 'we almost dated' air about them. Claire made the rationally sound decision against getting involved with Matt, but still. She feels things really intensely, which sometimes puts herself at odds with her better sense - thus the weird pseudo-jealousy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a distinct lack of Matt in this chapter; this chapter is mostly setting the world up a bit more and establishing the plot. Matt will reenter the story and feature prominently again, never fear. I am above all a shipper at heart.
> 
> shout at me if you have concerns! I admit to being pathetic and sheltered.

* * *

 

Foggy takes a second shower in his own apartment, running the water hot enough to pink his skin. He scrubs the foreign products out of his hair and off his skin and replaces it with his own shampoo and body wash and feels a bit better for it. A first-aid kit isn't really something he keeps around, but he has a tube of antibiotic that he slathers over the bright point of pain on his shoulder where the Man in the Mask's teeth broke skin, and no omega worth their salt fails to have a supply of mentholated creme for sore muscles.

 

That accomplished, Foggy climbs bare-ass naked into his bed and sleeps for another four hours.

 

When he wakes up, he feels a lot more like himself again, and not the primal omega-hindbrain. It's still there, of course, never far from the surface; it wants him to eat and drink and go back to bed to sleep the rest of the soreness off. Sane, rational Foggy is back behind the steering wheel, and so instead he makes a call to his OBGYN and schedules an emergency appointment. It's fairly easy to get one after he explains that he's post-heat.

 

There are faint traces of beard burn on his jaw that he can only hope that his hair will cover. The rest he covers with long sleeves and a scarf, and just hopes that it's not as obvious as he feels it is. He's smothered in menthol and body wash, but the trip to the clinic is still a little harrowing. He's not the only one that is out in a scarf, though the weather doesn't quite require it, but he feels conspicuous, like there's a neon sign flashing over his head.

 

They get Foggy situated in an exam room and he changes into the gown they provide for him with a sigh. It bares significantly more skin than his clothing does. He spends his time idly prodding a bruise on his collar bone until Doctor Paruchuri comes in. He's a bit distracted, but the moment he looks up at Foggy, his brow arches.

 

Foggy shrugs expressively at his doctor. They've known each other for five years now, and this slight exchange says more than enough for the both of them.

 

"Well," Paruchuri says, "How are we feeling today, Mr. Nelson?"

 

"How do you think I feel," Foggy asks dryly.

 

Paruchuri halts his progress into the room to take another look over Foggy. He's an older omega-homme with silver in his dark hair and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and he's probably so far past menopause that he's forgotten what his own heats were like. His empathy is also generally second to none, and when he'd examined Foggy for the first time, he'd quirked his mouth and told Foggy that he probably wanted to stop with the hormone replacements. Foggy has gone out of his way not to change OBGYNs since.

 

Reaching for his stool and pulling it over, Paruchuri sits down at Foggy's side with that same quirk to his mouth. "Well," he says, "considering what I can see of your physical condition at the moment, as well as the smug look on your face: pretty well, I would think."

 

"I don't look smug," he objects. He has no reason to look smug. He certainly doesn't _feel_ smug, or at least he's pretty sure he doesn't. "Do I look smug?" He doesn't _think_ he was being smug, but if he was walking around the streets of Manhattan -

 

"Maybe you have to be omega to notice," Paruchuri relents with an indulgent look. "Either way, I doubt a smart omega like you would take such a thorough shower if there was any thought in your mind about getting a kit done?" 

 

That was one of the other things that Foggy liked about Paruchuri. Even some omega tended to treat each other like there wasn't another answer but 'yes' to whatever was asked of them. If that weren't bad enough, for an omega with Foggy's health condition, it might be worse; 'yes' has never been an option before now. 

 

"Yeah, okay, I'm doing pretty good," Foggy relents, rolling his eyes. He's sore, achy, weak, and he feels kind of amazing; omega hormones are a bit unbelievable. "Not saying I look smug, Doc." Having sex with a criminal, even one with the best intentions, is no reason to be smug. Foggy sighs, and gets to the point: "I'll need a Plan B, though. There wasn't really time to bother with a 'plan a'." 

 

"I would guess not," Paruchuri says with a smile. He rolls back over to the counter and collects the clipboard that the nurse had filled out with Foggy's help earlier, pulling a pen out of his pocket and scribbling a few notes on it. "You'll have your 'Plan B' before you even leave my office," he promises. "Any other concerns or questions?" 

 

"Um," Foggy says, hesitating. "A little? I'm just - you know. You know what I'm like, I mean. You know about my condition."

 

Paruchuri glances up at him, brows arched high. "The OHAD? Yes? Oh." His face clears with a wry smile and he lowers the clipboard to give Foggy a serious look. "It's very simple, Mr. Nelson: you had the great fortune to have found yourself a suitable match."

 

"Well, yeah, I figured that out, thanks," he says. It was pretty much the only thing he'd been thinking since he smelled the Man in the Mask. "I just - why. Why him? I mean - for a week and a half every three months, I don't want an alpha within three miles of me, and then that asshole comes along and suddenly I'm rolling over and begging 'pretty please'." His skin burns with the humiliation of having to explain it, but this homme regularly has his face in Foggy's genitals, so if he can admit it to anyone - it'd be his doctor. 

 

Paruchuri looks a little baffled, like he doesn't understand where or how Foggy is confused. He says, "OHAD is a complicated condition, Mr. Nelson, but its logic is very straight forward: it's looking for very specific, highly compatible genes. Everyone does this, of course, but your condition makes a very large production about it. It ensures you reject subpar matches. Evolutionarily speaking, it's both brilliant and idiotic. Socially and emotionally, it's pretty terrible, as I understand." His smile is sympathetic. 

 

"Oh," Foggy says, "Well, that's just great. So this guy's a legendary golden chalice as far as my body is concerned. Very nice. That's not - that's not going to cause problems at all."

 

"Well, it is only a problem four weeks out of the year," his doctor says soothingly. "Many with your condition don't find a good match, so there are other options should you want to settle down someday. Most omega successfully adopt any surrogate-born children."

 

He doesn't, thank God, ask why Foggy's 'golden chalice' isn't an option. The fact of the matter is, Foggy can't have a goddamned vigilante's baby, even if he  _wanted_ a baby right now, which he doesn't no matter what opinion the primal omega-hindbrain has. He's pretty sure just about any omega's hindbrain shares that opinion, it's not  _special_ , stupid brain, no matter what the doc says about the OHAD. 

 

For all he knows, the Man in the Mask has kids in every corner of the city. He's a pretty impressive specimen, after all, and if the OHAD gave him the go-ahead then Foggy's pretty sure he's not the only one. After all, it's not like athletic, beautiful alphas have been in short supply in Foggy's life. He'd had something of a major crush on the head cheerleader, Haley Standford, in high school, and yet she hadn't been any more welcome than the other alphas when Foggy's heat came along. 

 

"Well, that's just dandy," Foggy says, raking back his hair with a sharp sweep. "I'm not really in a place to have a family right now, Doc, so I'll take that Plan B and promise that you won't have to deal with any nesting hormones for at least several years yet."

 

"Ah, maybe at that time I'll have retired," Paruchuri jokes with a smile, and he's probably not wrong; omegas in the defective percentile, like Foggy, have difficulty with the whole nesting process; Foggy's probably not going to settle down for years and years yet. "Alright, no more questions? Feet in the stirrups, then."

 

"Great. I hate this part," he says, swiveling with a sigh. 

 

\--

 

It's not like Foggy forgets the Man in the Mask - he can hardly, the suicidal jackass is in the news at least once a week and the people on the street are enamored with the idea of their own pet superhero (Tony Stark, they've apparently decided, does not count). But Foggy does his best to put the alpha out of his mind and lock up all his memories of the time they spent together. 

 

Alphas are good for babies and little else, his mom always told him, and Foggy can't afford a family yet and couldn't have one with a vigilante and - 

 

Okay, so maybe it's been eight weeks and he sucks at repressing things a bit, whatever. So what if his heat-fogged memories keep him warm most nights? So long as he keeps his brain busy during the day, it's not a big deal, right? 

 

Okay, so he doesn't go out late at night looking for the idiot, and that's the part that matters here. Franklin Nelson is his own omega with his own life and he does his own thing and he does  _not_ need an alpha, thank you anyway. 

 

Okay, so he might  _like_ one, but he's only human. 

 

"Earth to Foggy-bear!"

 

"Marce," he protests, turning to glare at the omega-femme in the doorway. "For the last time, I am not zoning out! I am  _in_ the zone. I am so far in the zone right now, you could make the winning pass."

 

Marci gives him a deeply unimpressed look, her hand on her hip. Foggy has the suspicion she had merely been walking by when she spotted him, and there's no telling how long she's been standing there, and the outlook isn't so good. Marci is at her most perceptive in the weeks preceding a heat, and judging by the fact that she's had her hair done and the way her skin is glowing, it's just around the corner. Foggy is so, so screwed. 

 

Only not literally, because that would at least make it worth it. He reflects on the fact that he'll have to start monitoring his hormones once she leaves on her heat-break; he's never far behind, which is just one of the joys of living out of another omega's pocket. 

 

"You've been standing there admiring our pathetic eighty-year-old coffee pot like it holds the secrets to the universe and not burnt coffee," Marci says testily. 

 

She's not wrong - Foggy came over to pour himself a cup and now that he looks, it's almost empty now. He's been day dreaming in front of the coffee pot again. He snatches up the pot to refill his cup, like that'll make him look less suspicious. 

 

She looks him up and down critically, tonguing her teeth. "You keep telling me you haven't met anyone, but you've been mooning for  _months_ now," she says. "And I don't mean your usual mooning, like you do for all the pretty little betas and omegas. This is full, over the top,  _pathetic_ mooning. Pining, you might say."

 

Foggy barks out a slightly stressed laugh, because that - but he's really not mooning, or pining, or whatever, he's really  _not_ . He better not be, anyway; if he is, he's in worse trouble than he thought. "Yeah, only no, defective, remember?" He lifts his cup of burnt coffee like he's making a toast. 

 

Rolling her eyes, she says, "Thus: the pining. You only  _ever_ pine when there's an alpha involved, Foggy. You should just take my advice and love 'em and leave 'em, no heat involved. So. What happened? Some pretty thing with big, strong arms move in next door or something?"

 

"Like it would make a difference if one had," he says dryly. "You know I love casual sex as much as the next person, but I have additional needs. Admittedly, you might describe them as soft-hearted, but there's nothing wrong with wanting a deep emotional connection with someone you're having sex with."

 

Marci studies her nails for a moment longer, then blinks at him. "Sorry, you were saying something?" When he rolls his eyes right back at her, she tsks. "Look, if you want that, then you're gonna have to work for it, which won't happen if you write off every alpha you meet on the spot just because you'll want to kill them for four weeks out of the year and most alphas are pathetic little worms who can't  _stand_ the thought of not having their omega's heat."

 

"Yeah, I know what your opinion is," Foggy says flatly. At one point, when Marci was first learning about the defective percentile, she'd gone so far as to offer to share an alpha with him - as in, Foggy could have all the ooey-gooey emotional aspects of the relationship, and Marci would fill in for his heats. The prospect had been mind-boggling at the time; he can't recall if he ever gave her a firm 'yes' or 'no'. "We have this argument at least once a year. I'm surprised you don't get tired of repeating yourself."

 

"Well, you don't get tired of doing the same stupid thing over and over," she points out, slightly caustic. "Clearly I need an outlet for my sheer annoyance over watching it, so here we are with our annual argument. This is me, saying: at least fuck a few alphas, I'm tired of letting you live vicariously through me."

 

She's nothing of the sort. Marci's good enough to him that she never openly sleeps with alphas that he's particularly attracted to, not that it really matters. Well, it does matter; it means she respects him, but it doesn't matter in the context of his chances with said alpha. Because he has no chances. The few times that Foggy's listened to her advice, the alpha was still a dick about it or they got overly attached, and that never ends well. 

 

And it really is the alphas. Mostly. He's not bitter about his condition anymore; he outgrew that about the time he met Marci, who had listened to his sob story and scoffed and looked at him like he was something small and dirty and said "Well, isn't that their problem?" And wasn't it? 

 

He'd been eight when he was diagnosed with OHAD, long before it had ever been a problem, and - well. It has been a problem since, but he mostly doesn't mind. There is more to life than alphas, and he doesn't want a family yet, so. So. So what if he fails to meet some of the most basic standards for omega behavior? Neither does Marci, and she never lets that get her down. She doesn't know why he should let it get him down. It helps. 

 

There is still the primal omega-hindbrain that tells him he wants alphas to want to start a family with him, that tells him he wants to start a family. It's an annoying little shit. 

 

"Look," Marci says when he doesn't reply, "I know what you look like when something is going on with you. It's that look, you're wearing right there; the one that says 'nothing to see here, officer.' I am going to find out what it is, and you? You are going to regret not coming clean to me."

 

Foggy grimaces at her, unimpressed. Marci is a little terrifying, but Foggy's built up an immunity to her after all these years, starting with college and ending right here with their own offices and practice - unsuccessful though it may be. Familiarity doesn't always breed contempt, but it could sure take the teeth out of the wolf. 

 

Or at least it lets him recognize which teeth are going to rip his jugular out and which ones would just end with a punishing nip. So long as Marci doesn't actually figure out what is going on, this will just be a nip - and how would she figure it out? Who in the world would guess that he spent his heat-break being abducted by human traffickers, only to be rescue by a known vigilante and banged six ways to Tuesday? Things like that don't happen to Foggy, and he prefers it that way. 

 

"Anyway," Marci says, moving on with her polished, business-quick clip, "I actually came in here to inform you that we have a business lunch."

 

"Oh, okay," he says, "Though, you know, I prefer actually eating on my lunch break, instead of working."

 

"We'll catch a sandwich on the way back," she says, unimpressed. When he doesn't immediately react, she snaps her fingers at him with a look sharp enough to cut glass, which is more than enough to have him saying 'okay!' and emptying his coffee cup into the sink. 

 

In short order, they have the offices of Stahl and Nelson closed up for the day with a sign hanging in the window and a stack of cheap business cards left for anyone who comes by. Marci had wanted better business cards for their joint office, but something like that was a bit out of their price range. 

 

Of course, at the time, Mrs. Stahl had offered to produce the cards and Marci had promptly printed out a hundred of the cheap ones with the tackiest clip-art of the Scales of Justice she could find. Foggy said absolutely nothing about it because unlike some people, he knows how to stay out of family drama. 

 

"Can you at least establish what kind of business lunch we're having, please?" Foggy asks. Marci has her hand hooked into his arm the way she prefers when she's wearing her taller heels out on the Manhattan streets. She doesn't need to, but she likes to play at being a helpless omega and not something with claws and teeth to spare. 

 

"Mm. It's a charity case. Your squishy little heart will love it," she says, patting his arm condescendingly. 

 

"My squishy little heart made friends with all your neighbors and is why your AC is working again enough though your super is a deadbeat," Foggy points out. This is his hometown. He knows how to scratch backs. Pretty little Marci from the South could be polite as could be, but it wasn't enough to get by in NYC. 

 

"It's also why I'm in that dump instead of making a killing at Landman and Zack and living the high life," she says with a wrinkled nose. 

 

"Point," he concedes with a grimace. "It's just that orphan tears are terrible for my complexion, so you can't entirely blame me for that."

 

"Mm. I suppose," she says noncommittally. She doesn't mean it. Marci likes to pretend otherwise, but she would never have made it at L&Z. Probably. 

 

Okay, he might be wrong on that account. Unlike Foggy, the tears of the innocent and the blood of her enemies does amazing things for Marci's skin. Foggy has to settle for kindness and sunshine, which are free if in short supply sometimes. 

 

"Oh, look, there she is," Marci says, breaking out a bright white smile and flicking her finger out. It takes Foggy only a second to spot who she must be talking about: a tall, leggy blond with wide eyes and long, straight blond hair. He takes another look at Marci's smile and groans. 

 

"You did not just drag me along on your date," he says flatly. "Marci. Marci. Did you just third wheel me?"

 

"No," she says, her face still warm and welcoming even as her tone scalds. "This is an actual thing. But she's really cute and if you're going to try to claw her face off, I want ample warning." She tilts her face back and beams maliciously at him. 

 

"That was one time! And I didn't try to claw his face off, Marce, I didn't even lay a hand on him."

 

"But you wanted to," she sings through her teeth and then they're standing before the blond alpha-femme who is giving them both a very sweet smile. "Hi," Marci says, her smile suddenly much more natural, "sorry if we're late -" They're not, probably, Marci doesn't  _do_ late unless it's a power play, "This is my partner, Franklin Nelson."

 

"Hi," he says, offering his hand. She smells mostly like gardenias - a beta cologne. He wouldn't have picked it as a match for her, thin and buttery-pale, but the musky floral scent matches her own natural scent and the sharp eyes she hides under long lashes. She's actually exactly his type, he acknowledges clinically. 

 

"Hi, Karen Page," she offers, shaking his hand. "The Nelson of Stahl and Nelson?" 

 

"Yep. Here we are: the Nelson and Stahl of Stahl and Nelson," he says lightly. Karen Page is pretty and he likes her cologne and he probably won't try to kill her if she happens to visit the office in a few weeks when his hormones start going sideways. Alpha-femmes are usually more receptive to his 'fuck off' vibes and Karen strikes him as more perceptive than most, which will earn her brownie-points. 

 

Marci pushes him away gently, stepping into Karen's space and taking her arm. "So," she purrs, "tell me more about this prospective client?" 

 

Foggy rolls his eyes and tags along behind them. He only listens with half an ear, skeptical of the validity of the entire thing - Karen is earnestly regaling Marci with some 'community improvement' sales pitch. Marci will be able to recite the entire thing later, Foggy knows, but she's not really listening at the moment judging by her encouraging hums. He's pretty sure Marci doesn't even know if she's going to sleep with Karen, yet; as far as he can read Karen, she doesn't seem to acknowledge that Marci's an omega at all. 

 

He's never seen anyone turn Marci down unless she'd terrified them - and even that isn't a sure thing. Some alphas like their omegas slightly terrifying, apparently.

 

The term 'community improvement' makes a lot more sense later, as they enter the thick of Hell's Kitchen. Foggy had grown up one street over from the unofficial boundary of that neighborhood, and he's aware since his return that there have been efforts to 'improve' it. There have been efforts to 'improve' all of Manhattan, of course - Tony Stark's tower, and his numerous other properties, and the new businesses, mostly chains. He thinks of the fancy apartment the Man in the Mask had taken him to, the two betas that owned it and the sprawl of space and minimalistic decorations. 

 

Back in his day - back when Hell's Kitchen had a heart, as he tells it - there was an actual sense of community. The people who were elected into positions of power actually had roots, and not just more money than common sense. Foggy's own family wasn't bad-off, really, but half-way through high school his his madad had a stroke and then Foggy was missing all kinds of days at school. Not because he was sick. He remembers his mom saying  _you're the man of the house now,_ and staying up long nights trying to complete schoolwork and make-up work and extra credit just to pass. It was a near thing, he thinks. 

 

And they never would have made it if not for their neighbors, and the neighborhood itself. Wouldn't have, not depending on his madad, and not depending on Foggy. He wasn't a skilled worker, but they still gave him work in exchange for food, and what money they could spare. 

 

"Of course," Karen says, "getting rid of strip clubs and bars, what's the big deal, right? Who really wants those things in the neighborhood? But the business they're building in place of that? Well, they certainly aren't hiring locally. We've been in touch with the neighborhood newspaper, of course. Getting the word out and spreading awareness." 

 

"But - let me guess - making a splash is making people a little bit mad," Foggy says. 

 

She laughs, loud and humorless. "Try a lot mad," she says bitterly. 

 

"Which is where Stahl and Nelson factors in, I suppose," Marci says clinically. "Sounds more like you might want to invest in your little local gangs. No way they'd want outsiders muscling in." 

 

"Well. Not exactly what I'd expected to hear from lawyers," Karen points out, a little sharp, a little reproachful. 

 

"Well, it is Hell's Kitchen," Foggy says vaguely, although he is with Karen on this point; if there are local gangs, it's better to keep them as far to the underbelly as possible. Marci isn't wrong, but that's not the right way to approach it either. 

 

"Hm. Well." Marci takes pity on her pretty alpha and smiles thin and sharp. "Why don't you just go ahead and introduce us to our client, Ms. Page." 

 

The building that Karen takes them to is in the middle of being refurbished, but despite the fact that the labor isn't unskilled - day laborers are exactly the kind of person that lives in Hell's Kitchen - Foggy thinks it's mostly superficial. Even if the workers are working for free, that doesn't pay for the new foundations or support work that needs to be done. It's superficial. It'll help. It'll look pretty. But it's a bandaid on something that needs sutures. 

 

Karen seems lightly concerned about how Marci will handle the chaos and the debris of construction, but Marci takes to it like she takes to everything else: with her chin in the air and a steely glint to her eye. Marci could probably casually perform corporate espionage and come in the next day like nothing is wrong. 

 

At last, deep within the building, Karen delivers them to what amounts to the war room in this urban warfare. There are building plans pinned to the wall and a desk scattered with tools and dust and dozens of water bottles. 

 

Karen leads them toward a group who are deep in a serious discussion. She catches the eye of one of them, another alpha-femme, and waits politely for them to finish speaking. Most of them are also alphas, which doesn't really improve Foggy's mood, but there's very little about this case that's going to make him happy, he can already tell. 

 

The moment the group dissolves, Karen steps in. "Mrs. Harper," she says, speaking directly to an alpha-femme. There are cool undertones to her dark skin, her eyes sharp and wary as she takes them in, braids splayed over broad shoulders. She's not half as tall as Karen - only a little taller than Marci, but she's made of just as much steel. 

 

Karen is familiar with her and doesn't seem intimidated. "These are the lawyers I told you about," she says. "Ms. Stahl and Mr. Nelson, this is Brianna Harper."

 

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Harper," Marci says easily, disengaging from Karen to extend one hand, sharp and businesslike. 

 

Brianna Harper doesn't take it, looking them over sharp and quick and not entirely welcoming; Foggy tries for a smile anyway, though he doesn't think it'll make much difference. "Right," she says skeptically, "Lawyers make house calls now, do they?"

 

"When the situation calls for it," Marci says, unperturbed as she lowers her hand again. "Whether or not we represent you depends entirely on what you need representing for."

 

Harper doesn't say much to that, seizing them up for a few moments longer; she cuts a look at Karen, who gives her a short but serious kind of nod. She still doesn't give in for a few moments long, but even an alpha on the ropes can't take too much offense at a pair of soft omegas like them. Harper seems to give in all at once, saying "Fair enough," and then she starts her story. 

 

It isn't like Foggy is unaware of what goes on in Manhattan, but he clearly hasn't been paying close enough attention. He knew that Josie's, beloved dive of the lower streets, had been threatened a few months back, but the efforts to 'clean up' have been a lot more widespread than he'd realized. There were certain places that he'd heard of being sold out and closed down that he certainly hadn't missed, but - this was slightly more serious. This was lives at stake. If these apartment buildings got demolished, where would the people go? 

 

Well - that's what Foggy hears. Harper talks to them about the buildings, about the history behind them that they stand to lose if the neighborhood is bought out and remade. It's obvious she's had to sell this story before, that she's learned to talk about it in terms of bricks and cement and history, like those things matter more than the lives destroyed. 

 

Foggy supposes both he and Marci do look more like used car salesmen than humanitarians. "So. We're looking at licensing problems and miles of red tape and bureaucratic obfuscation," Foggy summarizes, thinking of the long lists of hoops that L&Z had taught him and Marci to throw up in front of troublesome prosecutors and their bothersome clients. "They'll be looking to tie you up in court and drain your pockets. Possibly get the police involved, if they can find the right asshole."

 

Harper snorts, giving him a look like his idealism is cute. "It won't be a matter of finding the right asshole," she says flatly. "Otherwise, the city wouldn't be in the shape it's in."

 

It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on it. "Oh good," he says under his breath, "I love it when my bad feelings are confirmed."

 

Marci ignores his unprofessional behavior, every inch a partner of L&Z, even though that's not what they need here.  "Well, I can't promise you anything yet, but I assure you that my partner and I will look into the matter." 

 

Harper nods like this was more or less what she was expecting; or more likely, she expects that they won't come back with good news at all. She hesitates for a second as if something suddenly occurs to her, turning back to them. "Actually," she says, "I'd like a chance to come by your offices at a later date."

 

"If you like," Marci agrees easily. She plucks one of their cheap business cards out of her purse and presents it to Harper like it's made of gold and silk. Neither this nor the card itself seems to raise their estimation in Harper's eyes, but she makes no comment other than a brow and the quirk of her mouth. 

 

Before she and Foggy leave for good, Marci turns and shoots Karen some kind of parting look that startles the alpha-femme. Marci is facing away from Foggy at the time, but he can guess what kind of look it must have been, as Karen looks quietly astounded and slightly flustered, blushing a bit. It's extremely fetching. 

 

"You know," Foggy says, once they have bled back into the anonymity of the foot traffic, "suits designed to bleed the victims dry usually end when their lawyers quit - and I am pretty sure Mrs. Harper doesn't have a lot of money to start with."

 

"Oh, shut up," Marci says with a sniff of disgust. "If I tried to drop this case after the lovely Ms. Page gave you the whole sob story and dog and pony show, the moment I turned my back you'd run off and do something very noble and very stupid."

 

Foggy doesn't know whether to be touched or insulted, which he finds to be a normal state of things when Marci is involved. He can usually manage both, and does. "Oh, come on," he says, "I'm more dependable than that. Sticking my neck out for people really isn't my thing."

 

"Really," she says, all faux-surprise, "so what was that incident second year when I had to post bail because you had gone and gotten thrown into jail for starting a fight with Tricia Sampson's partner? Or how about that time you organized a protest against Professor Thomas for sexual harassment of omega students and you nearly got kicked out of the school completely and I had to go kiss Catherine's ass to get her to smooth things over? Or how about - "

 

"I don't remember any of that," Foggy lies blatantly. To be fair, undergrad had been a turbulent time for him. "Although if it had happened, any of it, I definitely would have spent a month buying you those coffees you like and bringing them back to the room before you woke up, everyday, to make up for Catherine. Not that any of it happened, of course."

 

"Of course not," she sniffed. "You know, I was really hoping you were settling down a bit now that we have to face the wretched grind of adult life, but I can just tell you've gotten riled up. If this is undergrad all over again and you go off getting yourself in trouble, there will be hell to pay." 

 

Like banging a vigilante? Although, that has been several weeks ago, and it has yet to blow up in his face, so he might have scraped by without repercussions on that one. As far as he can tell, the Man in the Mask has forgotten him completely - and why wouldn't he? He probably has an omega in every block. 

 

Not that Foggy cares in the least. Nope. Golden chalice or no, Foggy has more important things to worry about. 

 

"Please," he says. "What possible trouble could I get into? I am a lawyer, Marci, not an activist. Not anymore. Getting disbarred is the absolute last thing I would ever do." 

 

Marci doesn't look like she believes him. Foggy's not entirely sure he even believes himself, so that's fair. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHAD, or Omega Heat-Aggression Disorder, occurs in 3% of the omega population, most prominently in omega-hommes of a disadvantaged background. It was originally described as a purely mental disorder and referred to simply as Omegean Hysteria. In more recent times it was reclassified as Omega Aggression Disorder and imagined to be caused by a hormone dysfunction that became most obvious during the upheaval of estrus. Only during Foggy's adulthood has it been adjusted to be OHAD, and proven to be a response to external stimuli rather than internal.
> 
> Foggy simply describes it as being 'defective'.
> 
> A few things that might require clarification: 'madad' a slang term for an omega-homme parent that came into use during the 1900s, along with momim (o-f), fada (a-h), and fama (a-f). Previously, american english had no current words to describe secondary presentation (see: 'man' as an antiquated word).
> 
> I am of the opinion that Foggy has been and would be a shit-starter without Matt. Everything Marci mentions would have been addressed by Matt, quietly in the dark and with threats.


End file.
